The Cake Decorator
by EmilyHerondaleOdair
Summary: Peeta Mellark's life and childhood before the Hunger Games.
1. Chapter 1: The baker's sons

**Summary: Peeta's life/childhood before the Hunger Games  
**

***I do not own any of Suzzane Collin's characters or the Hunger Games*  
**

**I coughed as the flower from my hands flew off into my face as I clapped them once with a massive puff. The air around me flooded into a mixture of chalky white; my vision consumed with what seemed like a glittery snow storm.  
The familiar texture of the messy kitchen air filled my lungs; almost as familiar as the deep, almost sickening aroma of fresh bread. When my brothers and I were younger, we would crowd around our bedroom door, pushing one another over just to get a mild wiff of tomorrows loaves coming out of the oven; now we just dreaded it, blocked our noises while we worked. It had become so bitter sweet, having to be around the wonderful array of food day after day while we could only eat what had gone bad. Sitting in a pool of color and listening to the softness of breaking crust while we sat gnawing on our bread stale; silently letting our gazes drop to the floor until we left. The smell of the bread just made us sick to our stomachs now. I didn't really understand the whole process when I was little; having to sweep the floors while my brothers worked I just always assumed we ate everything we made. It got harder as I grew; having to decorate beautifully elaborate cakes and watched as they were almost swallowed whole by the rich and the greedy. We had more money than most of the district of course; at least more than those in the Seam, but not enough to, as my mother would say, "Waste what we made on ourselves". None of us would've dared taken anything that was supposed to be sold though; we were much too scared of our mother for that. Sometimes, Rye and I figured, she would wonder around the bakery, hoping to find something we did wrong so she could punish us; you know, just for something to do. Someone to blame. I scurried back over to the cakes as she walked by, shooting me a glare before I shot my head back down to my work. My father had been sitting on the window ledge for hours; just watching as various people and animals scurried by past the main shop window. He did that often, just posed himself in a position for hours, thoughtlessly watching the world move slowly by. I always wondered to myself why he would do it; torture himself like that. To b**

**e completely honest, I wondered why he had chosen this life at all; stuck miserably and depressed in a life he didn't want to have with a woman he didn't want to marry. I knew he didn't love her, or maybe he did. He seemed like he was only barely attempting to put up with her daily madness for Rye, Chris, and I, so we felt guilty about it sometimes. I swung back around as I felt my mother's breathe, hot on my neck.  
"I thought you said you made 5 cupcakes." she said slowly, obviously expecting that I had committed some giant crime.  
"I told you I was only making 4..."  
"There's one missing." she snapped, pointing to the counter.  
"That's because I only made 4."  
"You're lying. You took one..."  
"No, I only made..."  
Instantly she had gripped me by the collar of my shirt and was holding me up against the wall. My father barley seemed to notice.  
"What did I say, about stealing from the bakery..."  
"I didn't..." my words were cut off from her grip tightening against my throat. My breathing was heavy.  
"Make them all again; every last one. All of them, not one missing Peeta." she snapped, releasing her grip as I tumbled to the ground.  
"Get up and get to work before I give you a reason to be lying down." she threatened, shaking her fist but baking it away once I flinched.**


	2. Chapter 2: A world of colour

***Just so you guys know, this chapter will only be a little longer than the last; the first was sort of like an opening into the entire vibe of Peeta's life so far and I've been too busy lately to really sit down and write a good long chapter like I want to. But I swear more is coming. If anyone's confused as to the time frame of this, Peeta is 5 and a half, which (in my mind) makes his brother Rye 7, and his brother Chris 10. Keep in mind after this chapter the ages will be moving forward more quickly, as the entire story will end with Peeta's reaping. You can look forward to some Katniss in a few chapters, so please read and review Review REVIEW!*  
**

**Chapter 2**

**"Rye? What are you_"  
"Shhh." he interrupted, softly placing a hand over my mouth and motioning for me to turn around the other way. I instantly I shoved him off.  
"Ryyyyyeeeeeee..."  
"SHHHHHH." he whispered again, a smack of panic stretched out across his face.  
"Stop Peeta, be quiet!"  
"But what are you..."  
Again he placed a hand over my mouth to interrupt my whining. I struggled and squirmed until he brought his face in close to mine.  
"Fine. You can come with me, but you HAVE to stay quiet."  
I nodded, trailing behind him but stumbling back as he abruptly turned around again.  
"And you CAN'T tell mom."  
"I won't."  
"YES, you will. You ALWAYS tell on me, you ALWAYS rat me out, but this time you CAN'T. Understand?"  
"Yes."  
"No Peeta you HAVE to understand."  
"I know."  
"If...If you tell, I'll do something really awful to you."  
I couldn't help but giggle at the fact that he had actually managed to threaten me. Being 7 and all, he wasn't exactly the most frightening thing in the world to begin with, but I had known him my entire life as my play mate; the laughing and running and imaginary playing brother who cried when we had to let a butterfly we had caught loose. His face flooded bright red.  
"It's not funny! Seriously! I'll, I'll..." he paused for a second, running a hand through the thick waves of his dark hair. He then smiled triumphantly.  
"I'll create the biggest cake in the world, and then I'll take you when your asleep, and bake you inside of it. Then you'll be trapped in it forever and be sold to customers within the day."  
"Will it be a good tasting cake?"  
He groaned, slamming his hand on his forehead.  
"You won't get to EAT any of it; you'll be trapped INSIDE IT."  
"But, I can eat what's in the inside first, and then work my way out."  
"For the love of...I'm going to sell the cake to someone so they can EAT IT with YOU INSIDE. You would be eaten."  
"I don't think I would taste very good in a cake."  
He groaned again, rolling his eyes and tugging me along behind him down the dark steps that led to the caller underneath the bakery. His matching eyes looked back at me as he slowly opened the run down door, glowing blue like mine. If not for the eyes you wouldn't be able to even guess we were brothers; he had my mother's dark brown hair while I stood out in my father's blond, like Chris. Chris looked like neither of us, holding his own odd combination of dark blond hair and my mother's brown harsh eyes.  
"Close your eyes." He commanded softly. I did, focusing on my hearing to guide me through the path he led me on through the dark room. After a few minutes, he held me still and, by the sounds of it, opened a second smaller door that had been closed with a padlock. As he led me through, the immediate smell of dyes and sugars burst though my nostrils, almost knocking me back with an extreme intensity. **

"**Don't open them just yet." He whispered close, moving me foreword a few steps then stopping me where I stood. I heard pieces of furniture or large objects being scrapped or moved along the cement floor, the buzz of the single old light bulb being turned on as the room behind my eyelids ruptured with light. **

"**Okay. You can look" he finally said, leading my hand away with his own. In front of me stood one of our father's old baking tables; much too old and cut up filled with cuts and creases from bread slicing to be used currently, but it was apparent that it had been working for sometime, a while ago. Placed on top were several aged glass jars filled about 3 quarters of the way to their rims with different coloured dyes in them; dyes we would normally use upstairs to tint/shade the icings for the cakes. Behind the jars sat long strung out canvases of dried out birch tree bark curling at the edges and flowing elegantly off of the side. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a can of butter brushes, dried up and grouped in as if they were a small bouquet of freshly made begets. **

"**What is all this?" I asked, a smile stretching across his face.**

"**It's art Peeta; their home made painting supplies. Chris and I have been gradually building them up, well, since you can't just go around taking everything at once. A little bit of red dye here, a butter brush there...whether it's 4 times all in one day or twice over the course of two months gradually you start to build up. Here, come look..." I stepped forward, leaning over to inspect the display. He took my hand in his own and let me feel the texture of the parchment; oily but rough and bumpy as well. Underneath the new pieces were rolls of aged ones, but this time splashed with the swirls of the icing dyes. They were astounding; masses of bright yellows and reds to seas of deep blue and foaming green. Some of the detail work looked almost impossible within certain paintings; the cracking crust of freshly made bread, the scenery of the edges of the trees surrounding the lonely district, and one that caught my eye in particular. Me. A picture at the back of my little blond blue eyed face smiling behind a freshly frosted cake.  
"That's me."**

"**Dad used to paint a lot when he was younger; when you were just a baby even. Most of these are his from a long time ago; he probably keeps them down here so mom doesn't make him throw them away. So he still has something to hold onto from his old life. Something of himself."**

"**Does he still paint pictures?"**

"**Not any more. But Chris is learning how with the supplies we have, and I want to learn so he's teaching me. I'm not very good yet, but he figures if we're anything like dad, we'll get better and better until finally we're as good as him."**

**He put an arm around my shoulder.**

"**When I learn how to paint, I'll bring you down here and teach you."**

**My eyes filled with wonder. "Really?"**

**He nodded. **

"**Painting's something extraordinary you can put into an ordinary life Peeta. I know you're extraordinary, and this is a way for, someday, the world to know that too."**

**That night I went to bed and dreamed of a swirling world filled with colour at every turn; rainbow paints dripping from the sky, rocky paths of paper and flowing pools of icing. Only one thought crossed my mind as I happily drifted off.**

**Extraordinary.**

**I was going to be extraordinary. **


	3. Quick Author's note

***Hey guys! Thanks for reading my story so far; more is definitely coming. I just wanted to take a sec and tell people that reviews are the best thing that can possibly happen to a writer, so PLEASE take time to give me some constructive criticism. Whether you like it so far or don't I'd really appreciate it if you told me why or why not; anything from the outside world helps. Also, if you guys want to see some other of your favourite characters (again, Katniss is coming soon) that haven't been mentioned yet please feel free to include them in your review and I'll take everyone's opinions into consideration. Thanks guys ***


	4. Chapter 3: Alicia

***Hey guys! For chapter 3, the story is speeding ahead 4 years. Incase you didn't want to do the math, that would make these changes to character ages:  
Peeta/Katniss: 9  
Rye: 12  
Chris: 15  
And soon to come, Gale:11  
The story will stay at this age placement for a few chapters, and then go ahead a few more years. As a fair warning, this specific chapter should probably be rated a little higher than it is (for violence) so just keep that in mind cause I'm kind of a graphic first part's a little more about Rye than Peeta, but I don't really question what I write I just go with it. Hope you enjoy! And PLEASE keep reviewing!***

Chapter 3

I cringed as I held my knees close to my chest sitting underneath the far windowsill; watching as my brother desperately attempted to talk his way out of an only worsening situation.  
"You FORGOT? How the hell do you forget something like that? What do I need to do to get ANYTHING into that stupid head of yours? "  
"Please mom I just_"  
She hit him hard enough that he fell backwards against the table, sending vibrations through the floor.  
"Do you even REMEMBER what your job is Ryan or are you to "forgetful" to figure it out?"  
He flinched but the second impact came anyway; blood poured from his mouth.  
"My job, is to come to the bakery right after school for my shift."  
"EXACTLY! And you just come "prancing through the door" whenever you god damn feel like it!"  
The pace of his breathing picked up after the third impact, his voice chocking a little as he spoke.  
"I just forgot I'm sorry..."  
He cried out the fourth time, obviously trying hard not to shed a single year in front of our mother, who would've become 10 times angrier. Though I couldn't see from my angle, it sounded as if she was hitting him _with_ something; probably one of the rolling pins.  
"Oh yeah? Well maybe you need a reminder." she muttered, taking a handful of his hair and yanking him from where he stood to the other side of the kitchen. He was stronger than your average 12 year old I had to admit; always lifting the flour bags and carrying the heavy stone pans around, yet he seemed to be moved so easily by our mother it was almost frightening. Chris stood about 20 metres away from where I was, flattening out a large bowl of dough and trying to focus intently on his work to better avoid the situation Rye was in.  
"You have obligations to this family Ryan, to this bakery that need to be fulfilled before ANYTHING ELSE. Do you understand?"  
He nodded, tears slowly streaming down his face. She shook her head.  
"I don't think you do."  
"I do, I do understand..."  
Again she grabbed a fistful of his dark dark hair, pulling him up so his face leveled hers and that they were an inch away from one another. As an instant reflex, he cringed and began to softly sob. Chris lowered his head and kneaded the dough faster, pretending not to take notice. It bothered me that he never did anything, never got in the middle and tried to calm her down when she got us in trouble. A sharp scowl covered her face as she pushed him until he stood right beside the largest oven. In one quick motion she opened the hatch below the main oven door, revealing a crackling and sparking fire that would heat the vent. From inside the hatch she pulled out something long and metal and held the orange flaming tip centimeters from his throat.  
"When you don't work, we don't make as much food. When we don't make as much food, it's as good as burned because our daily prophet goes down. That's a fancy way for saying WE STARVE."  
He began shaking and continuing to sob as she went on.  
"What time were you supposed to be back, Ryan?"  
"2:00"  
"and what time is it now?"  
"7:00."  
She moved her hand lower down the handle so she wouldn't get burned.  
"And how many hours is that missed?"  
I did the math in my head before he has even begun to respond.  
"5."  
"You usually make about a loaf an hour don't you? And we sell a loaf for 6.00$? How much money did you lose me Ryan?"  
"I...I don't know..."  
She grabbed ahold of his chin tightly with her hand.  
"Do the math."  
"About 30$."  
"About 30$" she repeated back at him. Forcefully she tugged his arm up and yanked up the sleeve, holding his wrist in a tightly held grip. With her other hand she grabbed the poker and, as Rye struggled and squirmed to get away, held it down to his skin. His screams were so agonizingly loud that I almost screamed myself. Chris was gripping the edge of the counter with tremendous force, keeping his eyes shut and counting quietly to himself. Rye's sobs echoed through the entire house, but my mother seemed genuinely unaffected.  
"Now you only owe me 29." she whispered, holding it down again in a spot closely. For what seemed like hours all the air was filled with his exhausted pain filled screaming. Tears welled up in my own eyes as I wished I could do something yet was too afraid to risk my own safety for his. I watched the clock. 2 hours and 48 minutes she had kept him there, individually burning him for minutes at a time until large back and red pockets of bleeding and crumbling angry flesh appeared on his skin. His eyes had begun to roll back in his head from the instinct of wanting to pass out from the pain. However, my mother made sure to shake him violently until he looked at her to regain his consciousness between burns.  
"You will NEVER miss a shift again."  
"Yes mother." he replied pitifully.  
"You will ALWAYS show up for work ON TIME and you will work for however long I say."  
"Yes mother."  
"For the next 3 weeks you're working double shifts, day and night, in between school as your official punishment. And if I find anything not to my liking... I swear I'll lock you up and starve you until you learn how to be a proper bakery employee. Understand?"  
"Yes." he breathed.  
"Good." she said, pulling him by his shirt toward the stairs.  
"You have an hour and a half to clean up and do your school work, at which time you report back here for your shift."  
He nodded, limping up the banister as fast as his damaged body could manage.  
I covered my own mouth to keep from screaming, swallowing the tears I had worked up and letting them hurt my throat. It was a much better pain than what would've come if I'd been discovered.

"Rye?" I whispered, creeping around the corner of our bedroom. "Rye?"  
"I'm over here Peeta." he called out as I walked into the storage room.  
He had a clean shirt on and was trying to tie his apron back with his unburned hand. I ran over and, without giving him much warning, wrapped my tiny arms around his waist.  
"I'm fine bud, really." he said, moving my hands off him, "besides..." he started, walking over to the cabinet and throwing me one of the cupcakes he had hid from the day before, "It was totally worth it."  
I raised my eyebrows as he grinned stupidly. It took me a few minutes to realize what he was talking about, and I licked the icing off my fingers as I spoke.  
"What's her name?"  
He grinned again.  
"Alicia."

He then proceeded to tell me how while in class he was walking around helping some of the other students on there papers about the great war, a girl he had barely noticed throughout the year had her hand sky rocketing up to ask a question.  
"Yes, Alicia." the teacher groaned. The little girl stood up, letting her red curls bounce off her shoulders.  
"We are learning about the...GREAT war, aren't we?"  
"Yes Alicia..."  
"Well what's so great about it?"  
The teacher rolled his eyes.  
"It was a terrible war of many losses..."  
"Then why is it called the GREAT war? Sounds to me like nothing happening in it was great at all. Why didn't they just call it the awful war or the terrible war?"  
"It was the biggest war in our history..."  
"So the more people die the greater it is?"  
"Not exactly..."  
"But you just said_"  
"Enough. Take your seat, Alicia."  
"So if everyone in this classroom were to die right now, would this be considered one of the great classes?"  
The entire class fell silent.  
"EXCUSE ME?"  
"Well your implying that something with a lot of death makes it great. So would it?"  
"Of course not!"  
"Why not?"  
"Because...because it just wouldn't!"  
"What about if one child in this classroom died? Would it be greater than another classroom? Would we celebrate it?"  
"No!"  
"Why?"  
"Because that would be morbidly barbaric!"  
"So it's barbaric to pride over a child's death when we celebrate the brutal murder of 23 children each year?"  
Even the teacher was silent. Calmly Alicia sat down and continued her work as if nothing else had happened.  
After class, Rye had stayed and talked to her outside the school building, talking to her about his life, the bakery, and how much he admired her courage to speak out openly against the games. She told him about how her sister Clary had been reaped 7 years earlier, and how ever since she was forced to watch during school as Clary was torn to pieces by a psychopathic tribute who had eaten his victims after he killed them, she would always hate the Capital and what it stood for. For hours they talked and skipped rocks in the small pond beside the quarry, eventually coming to the conclusion that the 2 of them would stick together and try to outlast the madness of the world.  
"Are you going to marry her?"  
Rye laughed.  
"Ah, the forlorn thoughts of 9 year olds. Not yet Peeta, but I'll keep your suggestion in mind."  
"well I don't think any of this was worth it at all then."  
"What do you mean?"  
"You'd rather get in trouble and be with a girl?"  
He leaned down so our faces were level with each other.  
"Peeta; someday, you're gonna see a girl. And you'll have seen her so many times before, but at that particular moment, she will be the most beautiful thing you'll ever see in your entire life. Nothing will exist, but her."  
My mind flashed back to 4 years ago. Sitting in one of the school hallways waiting for an assembly to begin when a little girl my age wearing her hair in 2 beautiful dark brown braids walked by. I had remembered asking my father about her once before, and him letting out a sigh.  
"Figures you'd go for that one. I used to be in love with her mother you know." he stressed the word used as if he was forcing himself to say it.  
"What happened?"  
"She ran off with a coal miner." he chuckled, running a hand through my hair.  
I just sat and stared as the principal asked if anyone knew the valley song and instantly her hand shot up. She walked up, her braids swishing behind her and as she opened her mouth and began to sing the gym fell silent. Her voice was amazingly soft like Cotten and sweet like honey. For nights and nights afterward I would see her face every time I closed my eyes; even now occasionally her dark seam eyes would enter my dreams.  
I nodded back at Rye, sitting back on the chair as he ran down stairs to take his turn downstairs to work.  
The air smelt like burning sugar, and was thick with longing.

***Hoped you guys liked it; good or bad please keep REVIEWING REVIEWING REVIEWING!***


	5. Chapter 4

***I greet you once again fellow fanfictioners! (if Infact, fanfictioners is an actual word...) this is chapter 4, and the ages have stayed the same as the last chapter, (Rye 12, Peeta 9, Chris 15). Sorry if I dont update as fast as I started by the way; I'm working on another HG fanfiction that currently needs my attention because it is going a lot less smoothly. But I would REALLY appreciate it if you guys kept reviewing and gave me suggestions. Thanks, hope you enjoy !*  
**  
Chapter 4: Piles of dough and Slips of paper

"2 minutes 46 seconds."  
I fumbled with the brush more than I would've liked; smearing a little too much gray into the grassy area.  
"2 minutes 28 seconds..." Rye called down again, keeping precarious watch while he stood guard near the cellar door. I exhaled, closing my eyes and trying to visualize the picture I wanted to portray once again; a shimmery reflection of sunrays off of a grassy hill. My mind made it so clear I could almost smell the freshness in the dewdrops, feel the coolness of the breeze down my neck. It frustrated me to a disturbing extent that my hand almost refused to copy the picture I had in mind. Sure ,I could create a decent portrayal on a cake or pastry, but the minute any form of ACTUAL media was placed in my possession, I froze.  
"Hurry it up there Peeta..."  
"How much time do I have."  
"You had a minute...about a minute and a half ago."  
"Helpful." I muttered, wiping the turpentine off my hands and onto a moist cloth so my mother couldn't smell it on me later. Carefully I rolled up the unused bark and placed it behind the cabinet, laying the other on the floor in the dark so it would dry properly until I could return.  
"20 sec_"  
"Ryan." I heard my mother's brisk voice carry out, "What are you doing?"  
I slowly slid down to the back wall, carefully letting each of my steps hit the ground without making so much as a shuffling sound.  
"I'm...timing how long I left for my break..."  
"Break? What is this, a funhouse? It's REAPING day for god sakes, in 5 minutes we'll have customers swarming us by the hundreds on the way to the square! You think you have the right to take a break?"  
I stumbled back, reaching behind me for the cellar door knob.  
"I'm sorry."  
"And where's your sorry excuse for a brother? I swear if he hasn't cooked anything yet..."  
Suddenly I felt a hand softly cover my mouth, and I struggled until I was spun around and my father held up a finger to his mouth. I nodded as he lifted me out of the cellar, cautiously tip toeing around the perimeter until we were back onto the main path.  
"You probably could've chosen a better day to "express your inner individuality." he said softly, letting me down in front of him.  
"You paint everyday."  
"Almost, everyday. But ESPECIALLY not on reaping day."  
He grasped my tiny hand in his as we walked together toward the main entrance.  
"I can't paint anyway. I can never get the brushes to do what I want..."  
"You can't force painting. When you come across a circumstance or still moment in your life that would be best preserved behind a wall of colour, youll feel it; it'll just, come. Like you'll almost NEED to do it. Like...hmmm..."  
He paused for a moment, fumbling with his words.  
"Alright. Here. Look at it this way; the moons not here right now right?"  
"Nope. Because the sun is coming up."  
"Exactly. Well the sun can't just rise whenever it wants to; it rises when it's it's time to rise, when the moment is right. And the rise always feels perfect, because it's not forced."  
The sky began to fill with a dull light blue covered in a shimmering orange glow.  
"When it's time for your sunrise, it'll come up when it's ready. And you'll paint it when you're ready."  
I smiled as we walked in through the main doors, my mothers eyes fixated on me like a hawk.  
"And where were you?"  
"I took Peeta with me to get some flour from the market." my father said confidently before I had even opened my mouth. She rolled her eyes.  
"Well you're back now so get to work!"  
I nodded, quickly jumping into my apron and running over to the dough mixing station. My father followed close behind, feeding the ingredients in so I didn't get my hands cut in the mixer.  
"Why is Rye so quiet?" I whispered, looking over across the room at my older brother, who was sweating and beginning to shake a little as he buttered the shells for each pie.  
"He's just nervous, it being his first reaping day and all. You'll feel the same when your 12."  
I nodded, not even beginning to truly understand what it all really meant. I sort of got the fact that it was important and all; having to dress up all nice and stand in the middle of the square every year to watch other kids I knew stand in stage alongside a women with hair like thick pink icing and a smile so big on her face it looked like it was stitched there with a needle and thread. I turned off the machine and patted a pile of dough down; laughing as its cool sticky texture sunk in between my fingers. Quietly my father walked over to where Rye was working; leaning down to his height and putting an arm around his shoulder. I heard little snippets of whispering while he spoke, something about Rye being one child in thousands, another about something called *teresa* that he would never have to get. He smiled lightly, reassuring my father that he felt fine, and that he wasn't nervous.

As the last few people stopped by and bought us basically empty, my mother locked up the shop and we made our way to the centre of town, which thankfully, wasn't that far away from the bakery. My father scooped me up and let me ride on his shoulders, Chris glaring at me as I giggled. Rye walked slow behind, all except halting to a complete stop as we came toward the giant crowd of separated children in different lines.  
"Rye it's okay..."  
"Go. Go on." my mother said, pushing him foreword as he fumbled and then scattered backwards again. She raised a hand to strike him, but my father stopped her.  
"Don't."  
"He's going to get us in trouble! Who's to take care of the bakery if we got shot by peace keepers, he'd be starving on the streets like one of those Seam brats!"  
My father let me down and started quietly begging her to stop being so loud, insisting that most of district 12's population was here, and from the Seam. She glared at him.  
"You think I care what Celia thinks?"  
His face immediately went pale white as he whispered quietly, moving her arm every time she pointed in the direction of the people standing about 400 meters infront. A man with dark hair and darkened eyes, standing beside a women, who after many minutes of shouting and pointing I assumed was named Celia, who had soft blond hair and light blue eyes, matching those of the small child in her arms who couldn't have been more than 5. Then, standing closely hooked onto the man, I saw the little girl with her hair in braids.  
"You know it's not about that!"  
"It's ALWAYS been about that!"  
"Enough." my Father said quietly, gently moving Rye forward.  
"Just go line up with the other kids your age, just like Chris did. You'll be fine, I promise."  
He nodded, looking back at me with faint blurry eyes as he walked away into the line.

"Welcome, Wel_. Um...is it on? Is this thing work_ah there we go!"  
The woman with ridiculously pink hair stepped on stage, sporting equally awful looking clothing that looked as if she had rolled around on one of my wet paintings.  
"Happy hunger games everybody! This year, we have a very special film..."  
From the corner of my eye I could see Chris roll his eyes, exaggeratedly mouthing the words "all the way from the CAPITOL" with some of his friends.  
Again the same oddly dark video came on, such as it did every year, explaining something about a war and how 1 boy and 1 girl from every district would be playing some sort of game where they didn't get to eat at all. To me, it seemed awfully pointless. I had gone a day without eating anything before and it wasn't THAT bad; frankly it would just make all the children cranky at one another and cause an argument of some sort.  
"...And may the odds be EVER in your favor." she finished, walking over to the first big glass ball.  
"Ladies first." she mused, pulling one of her satin gloves tight as she carefully selected a slip of paper. Not a single citizen of the entire district was breathing. As she said that name, all but 2 of the district exhaled into a calmer state of mind. One of course being the girl, but the other, being Rye.  
"Alicia Gadge."


End file.
